


have you noticed I’ve been gone?

by suzukiblu



Series: I'll give them shelter like you've done for me [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Jaskier, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Fuck Or Suffer Unspecified Health Consequences, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Jaskier is a very good kisser, andalmostkisses Geralt often enough, which is a damn sight closer than most people get. Even when he’s paying for it, he doesn’t get kissed enough. Jaskier gets close, though.He pulls back, eventually—regrettably—and grins up at him, face flushed and expression delighted. Geralt’s chest aches just looking at him.“Sorry, I think I’m early,” Jaskier says apologetically, then kisses him again, and again, and . . .Geralt hasnoidea what he thinks he needs to be sorry for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: I'll give them shelter like you've done for me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630747
Comments: 224
Kudos: 3652
Collections: Good ones, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, wiedźmin





	have you noticed I’ve been gone?

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't gonna write more in this AU but the commenters really brought their A-game: a biography of the author.

Geralt is late. He didn't mean to be, but there was trouble on the road—twice—and the weather was shit, and Roach threw a shoe, and it's been a miserable trip overall. His last job ended in new scars and no money and he hasn't had a decent bath in days and he's fucking _hungry_ because the hunting's been terrible. 

So he's late. Almost two _days_ late, which is fucking appalling. Wet and miserable and late. 

This is it, he thinks as he trudges into town. This is the time Jaskier won't be there. This is the time he'll show up smelling like a stranger—someone who can give him what he _really_ wants, and not just a weak facsimile. This is the end, and last time was already the last time. 

Geralt exhales. Inhales. Breathes. 

He doesn’t know that yet. 

Maybe it’s been too long since they’ve seen each other. It’s only been a few months since Jaskier bit him, not even half a year, which is _nothing_. Longer to a human, yes, but still. It’s still too soon to be expecting that kind of thing. 

Jaskier will leave him eventually, obviously, but not yet. Not this time. 

Not this time, he repeats to himself as he twists Roach’s reins in his fingers. 

If he braces himself for it every time, though, he’ll be ready when it finally happens. 

He goes to the inn they’re supposed to meet at. He stables Roach. He goes inside. It’s not too late in the day, but the tavern is already lively, and he keeps his hood up so it’ll stay that way. Jaskier’s probably been singing about him. 

If he’s here. If this isn’t the time. 

Geralt exhales, and blames the long-faded remnants of the bond bite for the thousandth time. He never worried this much about Jaskier leaving before. He’d known he would, eventually, but in the same way every human eventually leaves. They change, and then they move on. Geralt doesn’t. Ever. 

Witchers don’t move on. 

“I’m looking for a bard. Would’ve come into town about two days ago. Sings about witchers,” he says to the omega behind the bar, who titters brightly at the question. This is it, Geralt thinks again; this is the end. 

“Oh, you mean Jaskier?” she says. She’s about to tell him he’s run off with some pretty young beta or is playing at being a kept boy in some rich omega’s house or isn’t in town at all, Geralt thinks. “He went out. Said if anyone asked for him to say he’d be back by dark.” 

“Hn,” Geralt says. 

He goes back outside. It’s too loud in the tavern, and it’s not close enough to dark to make it worth waiting inside. He can see if there’s work fit for a witcher around here and come back later. Won’t take long. 

There’s not, unfortunately, which is going to be a problem. Geralt barely has enough money to cover a night at the inn, and that’ll leave nothing to feed Roach and himself with while they’re in town. They’ll have to move on quick. 

Maybe Jaskier will come with them, he thinks. He’s not on any hunts right now, but sometimes the other tags along just to tag along, though Geralt’s never been able to figure out how to make him do it on purpose. 

It’s getting dark. He heads back to the inn, still two days late, still not sure Jaskier won’t smell like some stranger when he gets there, and still dead on his feet. He just wants to go to sleep and stay there, ideally with Jaskier in the room. Unlikely, since Jaskier must already have his own room, but . . . 

Right outside the inn, he catches a familiar scent in the air, and pauses with his hand on the door. 

That’s not coming from inside. 

He follows Jaskier’s scent around the side of the building with the vague sense of resignation that he’ll find him halfway up some farmgirl’s skirts, but he can’t help following it all the same. It’s _Jaskier_ , and . . . 

And. 

“Listen,” a familiar voice says around the corner. Geralt can already picture the placating gesture Jaskier’s making as he speaks. “Look, I understand I’m a tempting morsel, but _existing_ in the same building as someone’s mate is not a come-on, alright?” 

Geralt . . . pauses, and frowns. What is he talking about? 

“And snuggling up to my Molly ain’t?” an unfamiliar voice snarls. 

“ _Excuse_ me, ‘your Molly’ was the one snuggling!” Jaskier protests. “I am _spoken_ for, actually!” 

Geralt feels . . . odd, hearing him say that. He steps around the corner and finds Jaskier backed against the back of the building by a pair of rough-looking alphas, and snarls reflexively. The alphas both startle, and Jaskier—

“Geralt!” he says, lighting up in obvious delight. 

Jaskier throws himself past the bug-eyed alphas and right at him. He wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth, and something tense and miserable in Geralt’s body softens. Lightens, even, like Jaskier just picked up a weight he didn’t even know he was carrying. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, cupping the other’s face in his hands and checking for bruising. He doesn’t see anything, at least. Jaskier beams up at him, hooking his hands around his wrists. 

He smells so _good_. 

“Having a misunderstanding with the locals,” he says, then hums happily as Geralt puts his nose in his hair and just . . . inhales. Just for a moment. 

He smells _so_ good. 

“Just a misunderstanding,” one of the alphas agrees warily, holding up their hands. “He smelled like an alpha, s’all.” 

Geralt growls at them. Both alphas take a step back. They’re making an obvious and oft-repeated mistake, which is that Jaskier only smells like an alpha because he’s been scented by a particularly virile one, but Geralt’s willing to lean into it if it means they’ll fuck off faster. 

He’s definitely _not_ an alpha, but people always assume, especially when they’re together. Witchers have subtle scents. Jaskier does not. 

“We’ll just be on our way, won’t we,” the other alpha says, and both of them choose the better part of valor and flee. Jaskier laughs, then kisses Geralt again, curling his fingers against the back of his neck, and he can’t help but melt into it. 

Jaskier is just . . . so much. Always so, so much. 

Geralt pushes his nose into the other’s hair again, then sniffs down his throat and across his shoulder, looking for unfamiliar scents. There are a lot, because it’s Jaskier and people touch him all the time, but nothing lingering or invasive. 

He smells even better than Geralt remembered, which is saying something. 

“Flirt!” Jaskier says with another laugh, pushing his hands into his hair and kissing his temple. Geralt snorts, then presses his own mouth against one of Jaskier’s scent glands, brief but rough. “Ooo. Definite flirt. You’re _late_ , you know.” 

“Got held up,” Geralt grunts. 

“Anything worth writing about?” Jaskier asks, then laughs again when Geralt bites his shoulder, twining his fingers through his hair. “Oh, you know I have to ask. Come here, let me kiss you some more.” 

That’s hard to argue with, so Geralt doesn’t. 

Jaskier is a very good kisser, and _almost_ kisses Geralt often enough, which is a damn sight closer than most people get. Even when he’s paying for it, he doesn’t get kissed enough. Jaskier gets close, though. 

He pulls back, eventually—regrettably—and grins up at him, face flushed and expression delighted. Geralt’s chest aches just looking at him. 

“Sorry, I think I’m early,” Jaskier says apologetically, then kisses him again, and again, and . . . 

Geralt has _no_ idea what he thinks he needs to be sorry for. 

“So sweet, every time, _delicious_. Makes me want to eat you all up,” Jaskier murmurs between kisses, and Geralt feels softer and softer and like he could melt away completely, if the other just keeps that up. “I want to fuck you through the _floor_.” 

Yes. Geralt could definitely melt. 

"Settle for a wall?" he asks, glancing at the back of the building. Jaskier makes a delighted sound and Geralt tugs him towards the wall, letting his shoulders hit it. Jaskier kisses him again, tugging his hood down and out of the way. Geralt wishes he was wearing less. He's already wet, Jaskier's overwhelming scent and lingering kisses more than accomplishing the job, and he wants him inside him. Wants his knot to lock, and his teeth in his neck, and . . . 

"You sure?" Jaskier asks. Geralt nods, hands already reaching inside the other's pants to get at his cock. 

This time might be the last time, after all. 

Any time could be. 

He strokes Jaskier's cock and can't decide if he wants it in his mouth or his hole more. It's a bad place to knot, but he really doesn't care about that. 

Jaskier can bite him again, if he fucks him. 

That makes the decision very easy. 

Geralt pushes Jaskier back just enough so he can turn around against the wall, and Jaskier makes a soft, pleased sound and helps him out of his cloak. Geralt would just let it drop, but Jaskier throws it over his shoulder to keep it off the ground and then crowds in against his back. 

"Mm," Geralt says, curling his fingers against the wall as Jaskier gently tugs his hair aside. 

"I'm going to make you smell like mine," Jaskier says, his mouth against the faded traces of the bond bite. "Nobody in this town is going to mistake you for stray." 

Geralt shudders. It's easy to shudder for Jaskier. 

"Yeah, no one's gonna think you're _anything_ but mine," Jaskier says, kissing the bite and tugging at his clothes, making him accessible. Geralt pushes back into his hands and knows he's even wetter. Jaskier can't pin him, but with his body leaning in so close, he's almost all of what Geralt can smell. His scent is so _good_. 

"In me," Geralt says. Jaskier smiles against his neck. 

"Always so direct," he says, and pushes his cock into him. Geralt inhales roughly, hands fisting against the wall. "Feels good? Nice and full?" 

_"Move,"_ Geralt growls, and Jaskier laughs. He moves, though, and Geralt hisses. He wants Jaskier to bite him. He wants fucked _stupid_. 

It was easier in heat. He had an excuse, then. This . . . this is just normal want. 

Jaskier kisses the back of his neck and strokes his arms and back and fucks him just right, because Jaskier's fucked him enough times to know what "just right" is, and Geralt shudders and presses his forehead against the wall. He doesn't moan, though he wants to. He holds it back. 

"So quiet," Jaskier says, and sinks his teeth into the bite. 

Geralt _whines_. 

"Cheat," he manages hoarsely. 

"Oh, gladly," Jaskier says, then licks the bite delicately before just the littlest bit of alpha slips into his voice. "Anything to make you like it, omega. You're so wet already, I want to make you _drip_." 

He says it like it's not already this close to happening, like Geralt isn't already _soaking_ for him, and Geralt is dizzy with it so easily. Jaskier's voice used to be an annoyance. Now it's . . . definitely not an annoyance. 

Fucking bard. 

"Jaskier," he growls. Jaskier presses his knot against his rim, and Geralt hisses. 

"Yes, dear?" Jaskier asks lightly. Geralt bares his teeth. 

"In me," he hisses. 

"I'm already in you," Jaskier points out with a huffed laugh, rolling his hips just right. It feels . . . too good, mostly. 

"You know what I mean," Geralt snaps. 

"Hmmm, do I?" Jaskier kisses his neck again. "Come in you? Knot in you? Put my teeth in you?" 

_"Yes."_

"Greedy," Jaskier hums, wrapping an arm around his stomach and snapping his hips in _deep_. Geralt chokes. "Tell me what else you want, Geralt. I love it when you're greedy." 

"I don't want anything else," Geralt says, his voice hitching as the other's cock fucks him just right, just how he likes, just how he _wants_. 

Jaskier _purrs_ , then sinks his teeth into his neck again. Geralt doesn't whine this time, but only barely. Jaskier's teeth feel so good, feel as just right as his cock does inside him, and Geralt presses back into both. He wants the bite to scar. 

He wants every place Jaskier touches him to scar. 

It's . . . very hard not to want that. 

Jaskier fucks him 'til they both come, his knot caught securely inside Geralt and filling him up fucking perfectly. Jaskier grinds their hips together just enough to wring a few aftershocks out of Geralt's orgasm, and then kisses the bite and holds him tight. It's not the best place to knot, again, but Geralt could not give less of a damn. 

Everything smells like Jaskier. _He_ smells like Jaskier. 

Jaskier's knot goes down, eventually, and he pulls out carefully and then drops down to his knees and eats him out, licking up his own mess in the process. Geralt nearly bites his tongue to the blood trying to keep quiet, and it doesn't work very well. Jaskier makes appreciative noises in response and Geralt just tries not to rock his hips back too desperately. That . . . also doesn't work very well. 

"So sweet," Jaskier says, and Geralt comes on his tongue and fingers, comes easily and effortlessly, comes _shaking_. Jaskier makes him come so easily, even when it's not easy at all. 

Jaskier purrs, and licks his fingers clean, and then stands up and fixes Geralt's clothes for him and drapes his cloak back over his shoulders and kisses the freshly bitten bond bite. 

They're not a mated pair, technically, bond bite or no, but that kind of thing makes Geralt feel like what he imagines a mated omega must. 

He exhales, and flips his hood back up over his hair, pulled low to conceal his eyes. Jaskier squeezes his arm and smiles up at him. 

"I got us a room," he says, and Geralt's chest clenches painfully. "Just big enough for two." 

"Hn," Geralt says, and Jaskier leads the way inside and towards the stairs. They both reek like sex—even a witcher's scent can only be so subtle when they fuck—and Geralt growls at a few alphas who eye Jaskier speculatively, like they think he's a treat to be snapped up. 

Jaskier laughs, and takes his arm like an omega would take their alpha's. Geralt scowls at him. That's _not_ helping. 

"Doesn't that bother you?" he asks as they head up the stairs. Jaskier gives him a curious look. 

"What, people who can't smell for shit?" he asks. "What do I care?" 

"Hn," Geralt says, looking back to the stairs. He doesn't understand Jaskier. Doesn't it make him feel like less of an alpha, standing next to an omega like him? 

Jaskier hums, seemingly unconcerned, and leads him to a little room with a bed just big enough for two. It smells like two days' worth of _Jaskier_ , and a little bit of tension eases out of Geralt's shoulders. They can't scent places, not really, but when they stay somewhere long enough . . . 

Well, it's almost like it, then. 

“It’s good to see you,” Jaskier says, leaning up to kiss his cheek. Geralt tugs down his hood again. He kisses him, because that’s easier than saying it back. “Mmm, you taste _divine_ , have I mentioned that lately? I’m assuming not, since I haven’t actually _seen_ you lately. Your bite was so faded. It makes me want to put my teeth in you. Actually, that’s a lie, I always want to put my teeth in you. Are you just going to let me keep rambling, or . . .?” 

“You seemed fine with it,” Geralt says. Jaskier makes a face at him. 

_“Geralt,”_ he says, then catches him by the face and kisses him again. “You’re _mean_ , you know that? See if I bite you next round.” 

“I want you to,” Geralt says, and Jaskier immediately softens. 

“Well, if you insist,” he says. “You’re getting _spoiled_ , though, you know that?” 

“Am I?” Geralt says, and Jaskier grins wickedly at him. 

“You are,” he says. “And I love it. I’m going to make you _incorrigible_ by the time I’m done with you.” 

“Mm.” Geralt lets him kiss him again, and kisses back. Jaskier moans contentedly into his mouth, too loud for decency or any self-respecting alpha. Geralt shivers at the sound of it. Jaskier’s always loud, and Jaskier always spoils him. He’s . . . getting used to it, a bit. Probably too used to it. 

Being used to it at all is being too used to it, he thinks. 

It’s hard not to get used to it, though, when Jaskier does it every time. 

“I thought you might not show up this time,” Jaskier says, his voice a little quiet for a moment. He strokes a lock of hair back out of Geralt’s face, his expression too soft for Geralt to process. 

“Got held up,” Geralt repeats instead of _I thought you might be gone_. It’s . . . easier. 

“Well, it worked out in the end,” Jaskier says, smiling wryly at him. “Technically, you’re right on time.” 

“On time?” Geralt frowns. 

“You don’t have to, obviously,” Jaskier says. “But if you’re up for it . . . well.” 

Geralt’s frown deepens. Don’t have to what? Jaskier tilts his head, then gives him another wry smile. 

“You didn’t notice?” he says. “I thought you must’ve. I’m early.” 

“Early?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier tugs his face down into the crook of his neck, and Geralt inhales, and—oh. 

Oh. 

He’s . . . _very_ stupid. 

“I didn’t realize,” he says, but now he can’t help it. Jaskier smells like pre-rut, just barely. Just enough to notice under his usual overpowering pheromones. 

“I think I’m flattered, actually,” Jaskier says. “I figured you were just trying to take the edge off for me out back.” 

“I wasn’t,” Geralt says. He was trying to take the edge off for _himself_. 

Jaskier smiles at him. Geralt isn’t sure if that means he knows that, or . . . 

“I know we’ve never done it before, but I thought . . . well, I’d like to,” Jaskier says. “If you’d like to. I understand if you don’t, obviously, rut’s a different beast from heat and all, I just—” 

Geralt kisses him. It’s usually the most effective way to shut him up. Jaskier moans too-loud again and wraps his arms around his neck. 

“Is that a yes?” he asks breathlessly. 

“What do you need?” Geralt asks. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, grinning fondly at him. “I got food and water from the bar earlier. All you have to do is, well. Whatever you want to do.” 

“Hn,” Geralt says. 

“I won’t bite you again, if you don’t want,” Jaskier says. “Considering. And I know it can be a bit—rough, in rut.” 

“I don’t care,” Geralt says. He’s had much worse pains for much less. Jaskier reddens with pleasure, tightening his arms around him. 

“Really?” he asks. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, and Jaskier fucking _beams_ at him. Geralt doesn’t understand why he’s so happy about it. 

“That’ll be heat and rut covered, then,” Jaskier says, biting his lip around a smile. “If we spend enough time together after that . . .” 

Oh, Geralt thinks, blinking at him. 

If they spend enough time together after that, their cycles will synch. And if their cycles are synched, and they share one . . . 

It didn’t even occur to him. He’s not an _idiot_ , he knows how it works, he knows what people do, it just . . . didn’t occur to him. 

He’s not the mating type, after all. Why would Jaskier even _want_ to? 

“You don’t have to decide now, about the next step,” Jaskier says, tucking his hair behind his ear again. His face is still red. “But I’m very happy that you want to take things further. Just, well. So you know.” 

“Alright,” Geralt says, because he can’t manage anything more eloquent. Jaskier, mercifully, doesn’t seem to mind. At least, he kisses him again. Geralt kisses back, not sure what to feel. Obviously a bond bite is the start of the process of getting mated, just . . . he doesn’t know. Jaskier never said anything about his rut coming up, or what he wanted to do when it did. Geralt just . . . assumed. 

Lots of people don’t actually _mate_ after a bond bite. Lots of people just do it for something temporary. A momentary pleasure, not a long-term commitment. 

The idea that Jaskier wants . . . _more_ than that . . . 

Geralt kisses him harder; maybe harder than he should, with a human. Jaskier seems perfectly happy about it, though, and kisses him back fiercely, tangling his hands in his hair and pressing their bodies together tight. Geralt wants out of his armor very, very badly. It’s very much in the way. 

“How close is your rut?” he says, breaking off the kiss just long enough to ask. 

“Pretty close,” Jaskier admits sheepishly. “You, uh . . . riled me up a bit out there.” 

“Alright,” Geralt says, reaching for the clasp of his cloak. His armor is very definitely in the way. Rut is nothing like heat, except for in the most basic sense. Alphas don't nest, though, and they don't want soft things or niceties, and they always want to get right down to business. It's rough, and sometimes painful, and—

"Thank you," Jaskier says, and kisses him softly and takes his cloak before he can drop it. Geralt . . . takes a moment. Just a moment. 

Jaskier is so . . . _never_ what he expects. 

"May I take your armor off, omega?" Jaskier asks. Geralt stills for a moment, then gives a sharp nod. " _Thank_ you." 

Jaskier sets his cloak aside safely, then starts taking off his armor piece by careful piece. He knows it better than anyone else, except Geralt himself. Geralt struggles not to look as affected as he feels, watching Jaskier make his body vulnerable before him. Struggles not to _feel_ that vulnerable. He could still kill him without even trying. 

But he feels vulnerable all the same. 

Jaskier kisses his necklace, and sets the last piece of his armor aside. Geralt . . . breathes, mostly. 

"Do you want a nest?" Jaskier asks. 

"Alphas don't nest," Geralt says automatically. Jaskier gives him a wry look. 

"Well, I do," he says. "If you want it." 

"I don't need it," Geralt says. 

"Won't be but a moment, then," Jaskier says, and gives him a quick peck before heading over to the bed. Geralt watches him pull together a nest out of the bedding, bare-bones but functional. He can't imagine it surviving something as violent and chaotic as rut, but Jaskier spends the time to make it all the same. 

Geralt wonders what he'll be like when the rut actually kicks in. He's partnered very few rutting alphas over the years, and it was . . . messy, mostly. Painful, a bit. 

Not very like Jaskier, but . . . 

Well. It's rut. It does things to people. 

Jaskier finishes the nest, then beams over at him proudly. Geralt isn't sure what to say. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he settles for. Jaskier gives him another wry look. 

“But do you _like_ it,” he asks, and Geralt . . . 

“It’s fine,” he says, because anything more than that feels like too much to admit to. Jaskier sighs, then heads over to his bags. 

“I got you something,” he says as he digs into them. That’s something else he does more often than Geralt knows how to deal with. He never knows what to do when Jaskier presents him with a pretty bauble or small treat or a perfume he’ll never wear. They’re always very thoughtful little things, but never anything he can actually use. Just . . . frivolities. “Just a little thing, but I thought—well, not _of_ you, exactly, but I thought . . . about you? When I saw it. If that makes sense.” 

“No,” Geralt says, and Jaskier comes up with a little velvet bag. 

“I suppose not,” he sighs, then comes back over and offers him the bag. “You don’t have to wear it, obviously. It’s a bit . . . silly, honestly. I just thought about you when I saw it, like I said.” 

Geralt opens the bag, and tips it out into his hand. A thick little length of silver chain puddles into his palm. It’s a bracelet, it looks like. There’s a charm dangling from it, half-buried in the chain. 

“This won’t fit me,” he says. Omega jewelry never does. 

Not that he goes out of his way to try it on, mind. 

“It should,” Jaskier says, making a circle with his fingers. “I had them add a little bit extra to the chain. But like I said, you don’t have to wear it. Obviously.” 

“Mm.” Geralt looks at the bracelet. It’s . . . pretty, he supposes. Too pretty for the likes of him. 

Jaskier’s bought him stranger, though, and silver _does_ have its uses. 

“It’s fine,” he says, tilting the bracelet so the light flickers off it and looking for the clasp. He can wear it for a little bit, at least, assuming it actually fits. 

“Can I put it on you?” Jaskier asks hopefully. Geralt grunts in assent, holding it out to the other, and Jaskier’s face lights up again. Geralt doesn’t know why; it’s just a bracelet. Nothing special. 

An alpha’s never given him jewelry before, but that’s . . . something else. 

Jaskier takes the bracelet and loops it around his wrist, and it does, in fact, fit. Jaskier fastens it, then drops a sweet little kiss against the clasp, right over the scent glands in Geralt’s wrist. Geralt’s fingers curl. 

“How’s that?” Jaskier says. Geralt looks at the bracelet. The little charm is a flower. 

He almost laughs. Jaskier saw this and thought about _him_? 

Then he recognizes it, and realizes in a startled rush—the flower is a buttercup. 

Jaskier put _his_ flower on him. 

That’s why it made him think about him. That’s why he bought it, and looked so pleased when Geralt agreed to wear it. _That’s_ why—

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, and lets his wrist drop to his side. The chain shifts against his scent glands. He pretends not to notice. 

Jaskier gives him this _soft_ look like he doesn’t deserve and catches his hand in his own to squeeze just for a moment before letting go. Geralt wishes he’d held on longer, but can’t bring himself to say so. 

Jaskier smells so, so good. Geralt wants his scent all over him, even more-so than it already is. 

He looks down at the bracelet, then flicks his eyes away from it. It’s . . . strange. He doesn’t know what to think of it. 

“You look so pretty,” Jaskier says with a warm sigh. Geralt snorts, shaking his head at him. Jaskier always says things like that. 

“Sure,” he says, moving to strip off his shirt. Jaskier still only smells faintly of rut, but rut’s not like heat—it hits a lot faster, and a lot harder. It makes sense to get naked in advance, when there’s no way to know exactly when it’ll overcome Jaskier. He’ll be irritated if his clothes get damaged, so . . . 

“Definitely,” Jaskier says, watching him strip with a pleased, heated expression. “If I knew that was all it’d take to get you naked, I’d be calling you pretty first thing every time I saw you.” 

“Hn,” Geralt says dubiously, dropping his pants on the floor. Jaskier picks up his clothes and folds them nicely, then sets them aside. Geralt doesn’t know why he bothered. Geralt doesn’t know why he _cares_. 

“So eloquent,” Jaskier hums, crowding up into his space; touching the wrist with the bracelet on it. Geralt’s fingers curl against nothing. He waits for arousal to overtake Jaskier’s scent, but it only simmers quietly beneath it; warm and present, but not overwhelming. Jaskier takes his hand in his own and kisses the inside of his wrist where the silver links lie. “It suits you.” 

Jewelry does not suit Geralt. Especially not anything with a _flower_ on it. 

He finds he can’t say that to Jaskier, though. It just feels . . . wrong. 

Not untrue, but wrong. 

"Don't," he says instead, and Jaskier hums against his wrist before letting it go. 

"Alright," he says. "Will you nest with me, omega?" 

"Fine," Geralt says. Jaskier gestures grandly to the bed, showy and performative, and Geralt resists the urge to sigh. Jaskier is just . . . so _soft_. 

To him, he means. 

He doesn't know what to do with it, even after all these months. Jaskier doesn't seem to hold it against him, at least, but . . . 

Jaskier's just so _good_ to him. Better than he's earned. 

And Geralt . . . he _wants_ it. Wants the frivolous little gifts that prove Jaskier's been thinking about him, the cozy little nests he's clearly been practicing how to make, the softness and goodness and things Geralt hasn't earned. 

Rut's not going to be soft, but Jaskier's going to _need_ him, and that . . . 

He exhales, and goes over to get in the nest. Jaskier eagerly divests himself of his own clothing, which he drops much more carelessly than he did Geralt's, Geralt can't help but notice, feeling oddly warm over it. 

"May I come in, omega?" Jaskier asks, like every time. 

"Yes," Geralt answers quietly, not quite able to add the "alpha". Not yet. Jaskier climbs into the nest with him and smiles at him, reaching out to take his hands in his own and visibly admiring them. Geralt assumes it's the bracelet pleasing him, and feels that odd warmth again. 

He's pleasing his alpha. 

Geralt could normally care less about pleasing anyone, much less anyone specific, but when Jaskier looks at him like _that_ . . . 

"Jaskier," he says, and Jaskier's smile widens. 

"You smell so good," he says. "You always smell good, I mean, but right now is an especially fine vintage, if you will. I want to kiss you everywhere." 

"That's fine," Geralt says, voice a little stiffer than he means to make it, and kicks himself for it. He wants to be . . . _receptive_ ; wants to do this right. He owes Jaskier a good rut. 

He owes him a _very_ good rut, after the way Jaskier took care of him for his heat. 

"Thank you," Jaskier says, leaning in and kissing the scent glands in his wrists again gently. The scent of his arousal is still a low simmer, and Geralt is restless waiting for his rut to start. He wants to be touched. He wants to be . . . he wants . . . 

Taken. He wants to be taken. 

And he wants to take care of _Jaskier_ , this time. 

"Can I kiss you?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt exhales. Jaskier makes him . . . forget. So often. Forget how temporary this is, how it won't last, how little it will matter in the long run. 

"What kind of question is that?" he says. Jaskier smiles at him again, squeezing his hands. 

"I just want to kiss you," he says. "Probably won't be particularly good at it once I'm properly rutting, so . . ." 

"Hn," Geralt says, and tugs him in to kiss. Jaskier makes a pleased sound between their mouths, wrapping his arms around his neck. Geralt puts his own hands on the other's hips. He wants to kiss him harder, let himself be hungrier about it, but . . . 

But. 

Jaskier breaks off the kiss to smile at him again. Geralt flicks his eyes over the other's face and breathes in his scent. It's not enough yet. He wants more. 

He can wait, he tells himself. Jaskier's going to rut. He'll give him plenty, then. 

Geralt always feels like he wants too much. 

When doesn't he? 

Jaskier kisses him again. It's not enough, but it's better. Geralt wants _more_ , and can't help the part of himself that's impatient and restless and wanting. He wants Jaskier inside him, wants Jaskier kissing him, wants . . . 

Too much. Too much, like always. 

But there's no "too much" in rut. Jaskier will want as much of him as he can take, and Geralt . . . well, he'll let him take it. He owes it to him, for one thing. 

And he _wants_ it, for another. He wants Jaskier too demanding and too harsh and too much, wants the excuse to give it to him, wants . . . 

Too much. 

Always, too much. 

But it’s rut. Rut’s supposed to be too much. Jaskier will be able to give him exactly as much as he wants and Geralt won’t have to apologize for it, won’t have to hold himself back, won’t have to pretend he doesn’t want more or be patient. 

“Oh, you smell _wonderful_ ,” Jaskier groans between kisses, lacing his fingers into Geralt’s hair; kissing him again and again, and almost enough. “Have I mentioned that yet? I have been incredibly remiss if I have not mentioned that yet. You’re _delicious_.” 

He doesn’t smell like rut yet, not quite, but Geralt’s body hums and thrums with excess energy, _waiting_ , and he kisses back maybe a little bit too hard and holds on maybe a little bit too tight. It’s fine. It’s alright. It’s not too much, not yet. 

“Better than delicious, I don’t even have a word for what you are, it’s too good,” Jaskier keeps rambling, keeps kissing him, and Geralt noises back at him in the hopes he won’t stop and tries to keep his own pheromones from spiking too sharply. He misses the heat potion that muddied his scent and made it easier to act patient. Knowing that Jaskier can _smell_ his restless arousal does not make it easy to act patient at all. “Oh, _Geralt_ , I love it. Don’t stop.” 

Geralt cannot imagine what he’s doing right now that Jaskier honestly thinks he would stop. 

Jaskier purrs, kissing him more thoroughly, and Geralt chokes back a moan that would’ve come out much, much too loud and kisses back. He presses forward unthinkingly, and Jaskier falls back under his weight, and then Geralt’s on top of him, too hungry and too needy and too _much_ , for sure, but—

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Jaskier’s saying, and Geralt can’t. Jaskier tastes too good, feels too good, is too _close_. If he just touches him enough, if he just gets close enough—

Jaskier gulps in a ragged breath, pushing a thigh up between Geralt’s, and Geralt can’t hold back the moan this time. 

Too much, he thinks. Too much, too quick, too soon, but Jaskier keeps saying, “Don’t stop,” over and over and _over_ , and Geralt just can’t. Not when Jaskier wants more. Jaskier smooths a hand down over his chest and stomach, makes his way to his cock to stroke it, and Geralt moans again and rocks down into it. Jaskier kisses his jaw and throat and shoulder and Geralt grinds down into him, panting and fumbling to get his hand around the other’s cock in return. He didn’t mean to get so into it so quickly, didn’t mean to be too demanding, but . . . 

“Oh, oh, _oh_ ,” Jaskier says against his ear, and Geralt’s not sorry. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s not too much if it’s just once; not too much if it’s meant to fuel Jaskier’s oncoming rut; not too much if Jaskier doesn’t mind. It’s fine. 

It feels so _good_. 

Geralt comes, sharp and shocky-bright and _too loud_ , and Jaskier lets out a low, low rumble and does the same, spilling messily all over Geralt’s hand as Geralt squeezes his knot in his fist. Geralt tries to remember how to breathe, but only mostly manages it. 

“You’re wonderful,” Jaskier husks, cupping his face in his hands and kissing him again, and Geralt melts into it, warm and heavy with afterglow. “Oh, Geralt. You make me want to throw you down and _ravish_ you. I realize I can’t, technically, but allow a poet his metaphors.” 

Geralt would let him, he thinks. If Jaskier wanted to. 

There’s a lot he’d let Jaskier do. 

“You feel so good,” Jaskier says, kissing him harder and harsher, near-frantic with it. Geralt inhales, and _moans_. 

That. 

_That’s_ what rut smells like. 

He feels wet and warm and _needy_ , immediately and urgently, and Jaskier’s cock is still a heavy weight in his sticky hand, only barely softer than it was before he came. Geralt squeezes it reflexively, and Jaskier growls up at him through bared teeth, digging his fingers into his hair. 

Geralt does the reasonable thing, and moves back to duck down and swallow his cock. Jaskier _snarls_ , his hips bucking up immediately, and Geralt doesn’t even pretend to hold them down. They both know he could if he wanted to, but that would mean wanting to. Jaskier fucks up into his mouth and Geralt half-chokes, because it’s been a long time since someone fucked his mouth. It feels even better than he remembered it feeling. 

_“Geralt,”_ Jaskier gasps. Geralt opens his throat and swallows around him, and Jaskier curses vividly. His hands knot in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt shudders at the way they pull and re-wraps his hand around the other’s knot to squeeze. Normally he’d never waste a knot he could be sitting on, but it’s _rut_ ; there’lll be other knots. 

He glimpses the bracelet out of the corner of his eye as he glances up to Jaskier’s beautifully blissed-out face. It’s a reminder, where Jaskier can’t always be there to scent him. Proof, where Jaskier can’t always be there to give it. 

Geralt doesn’t know if Jaskier meant it that way, but he feels it that way. He feels _marked_. 

He feels marked, and he likes how it feels. 

He squeezes Jaskier’s knot and sucks his cock and bobs his head, and Jaskier curses and praises him, drags his hands through his hair and holds onto him tight and fucks up into his mouth, and comes right down his throat. Geralt swallows every last drop, then licks up the mess from last time. Jaskier keeps cursing at the ceiling and doesn’t let go of his hair. 

“Geralt,” he groans reverently. “Oh, you’re a marvel. A _terror_. I want to fuck you ‘til you’re so full of my come you _choke_ on it. I want you _soaked_ in me.” 

“That’s fine,” Geralt says, licking come off his lips, and Jaskier looks down at him and groans again. 

“Beautiful,” he says feelingly, cupping Geralt’s face in one hand; keeping the other threaded tight through his hair. “Open your mouth.” 

Geralt does. Jaskier puts his thumb on his tongue, holding his jaw open. Geralt could bite right through it, but shudders all the same. 

“You swallowed all that,” Jaskier rumbles approvingly. “So _good_ for me.” 

“Ah,” Geralt manages, not meaning to make a sound at all. 

“Get up here,” Jaskier says, and pulls at him. Geralt goes, obviously, and Jaskier rubs his half-hard cock against the curve of his ass and pets his tongue. Geralt doesn’t moan, but only barely. It’s hard to keep quiet with his mouth held open. “Oh, look at you. So fine and lovely. Such a treasure. I haven’t made you come near enough times yet.” 

Geralt shudders, just barely, and Jaskier _purrs_. 

“I’m going to knot you again,” he says, voice tender and filthy. “Going to make you _fat_ on my come.” 

It is very, very hard to keep quiet with his mouth held open. 

Jaskier lets go of him, mercifully and regrettably, and moves his hands to his hips. He rubs his cock against his ass again, thick and hard and like a promise. Geralt grits his teeth against the noise that wants to escape past them, and his hole fucking _drips_. 

“You’re so good for me,” Jaskier says in that same tender, filthy voice. “I love the way you take my knot. You’re so wet for it every time.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. 

“I’d ask if you were that wet right now, but I can smell it,” Jaskier says, grin curving wickedly as he pushes his hands back over Geralt’s ass and squeezes possessively. Geralt gets even wetter, and feels himself drip again. “Oh, _Geralt_. I’m going to write so many songs about you.” 

“Not like _this_ ,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier just beams up at him, soft and adoring and nothing like he’d expect from an alpha stinking of rut pheromones. 

“Let me on top of you,” Jaskier says. “I want to fuck you.” 

“You can fuck me like this,” Geralt says, and Jaskier pushes himself up and presses a kiss into his chest. 

“Not as hard as I want to,” he says. “On your back. Please?” 

It’s not much of a demand, so far as rut goes, and Geralt can’t really argue with it. He shifts to the side and lays back in the nest and Jaskier rolls on top of him with a low, content noise. Geralt’s blood _thrums_. He doesn’t think his heart’s ever beaten so fast, not even when he was human. 

Jaskier kisses him, and it’s almost enough. Geralt softens for it either way—can’t help it—and Jaskier hums between their mouths. 

“I should kiss you more,” he says musingly, putting a hand on Geralt’s chest. “I never feel like I’ve done it enough.” 

Something hot clutches up in Geralt’s chest, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Jaskier is just looking at him, intent and fascinated like there’s something new and interesting to see, and not just his face, which he must’ve seen a thousand times. 

He spreads his thighs properly, so Jaskier’s narrow hips fit between them just right, just where he wants them, and Jaskier smiles down at him. His face is flushed and warm and his eyes are glittering like silver. Geralt bares his teeth at him, not even sure why he does it, and gets kissed again. 

“Lovely,” Jaskier murmurs, and pushes his cock into him. Geralt’s breath hitches, his heels digging into the bed and hips reflexively tilting up for more. “ _So_ lovely. I find myself quite without words when it comes to describing you, Geralt. It’s a problem.” 

“Move,” Geralt says, voice practically a keen. Jaskier smells _so good_ and feels even better, and he just—he _wants_. 

Jaskier smiles at him, and _snaps_ his hips in. Geralt’s eyes flare wide, and his head knocks back against the side of the nest as he bites a strangled moan in half. Jaskier leans into him and grinds their hips together in greedy, urgent little circles. He’s in so deep, and Geralt wants him even deeper. 

“Good?” Jaskier asks quietly. Geralt nods, helpless to do anything else, and Jaskier’s smile widens. “Good. Tell me how it feels.” 

“Big,” Geralt manages, and Jaskier rewards the answer with another snap of his hips. Geralt curses. 

“Such flattery,” Jaskier croons, smoothing his hair back off his forehead for him. “Do you want knotted again? Want me bigger?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says. Jaskier catches his jaw in his hand; smooths his thumb across it. It feels good. 

“You smell so excited,” he says. “Were you looking forward to this?” 

Geralt just grunts in reply, shifting to push his hips up into Jaskier’s next thrust and biting back another groan. Jaskier watches him with those glittering eyes, then traces a hand over his chest and tugs at a nipple. Geralt grits his teeth. 

“So pretty,” Jaskier says, tender and filthy. “I want to come all over your tits, but I’m not sure you’d forgive me for not doing it inside you. Would you?” 

Geralt can’t quite bring himself to answer, and just grits his teeth again as Jaskier’s cock rocks deeper into him. He bites the back of his wrist, meaning to muffle anything that might escape his mouth, and his lips press against the cold metal of the bracelet and he _whines_ before he even remembers what it means. 

“No, you wouldn’t, would you,” Jaskier croons, pinching his nipple a little more sharply than he normally would; fucking him a little harder than he normally would. His scent is heady and heavy with rut, even this early in it, and it’s all Geralt can smell. “You want it all.” 

It’s rut, Geralt reminds himself as his jaw tightens. It’s fine to give Jaskier what he wants, and it’s fine to like it. It’s what he _should_ do, even, to be a good partner. To pay him back what he owes. 

Jaskier catches the wrist he has over his mouth and tugs it away, and Geralt . . . lets him. 

It’s rut, he reminds himself again. 

“Open your mouth,” Jaskier says. Geralt obeys, and Jaskier hooks his thumb into the side of it; curls his fingers under his jaw. Geralt could still bite him, but he doesn’t. “You’re so _quiet_. I want to hear you. I want the whole damn _place_ to hear you, so everyone knows you’re mine.” 

Geralt swallows. Jaskier kisses his throat. 

“Can you do that for me?” Jaskier asks gently. “Or do you need help?” 

Geralt doesn’t know what “help” means. He doesn’t know if he can be loud, either. 

Jaskier turns his wrist in his grip; kisses the charm on the bracelet. Geralt exhales raggedly, and Jaskier snaps his hips in again, thrusts in _deep_ , and Geralt _grunts_. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, just barely inquiring, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Help,” he manages. “I need—help.” 

“Okay.” Jaskier kisses his jaw again, reclaiming his hand from his mouth and smoothing it down his chest. He stops thrusting, hips just barely rocking, and Geralt nearly _chokes_ in frustration. 

“What—” he protests breathlessly, and Jaskier mouths down his throat, cupping one of his pecs and flicking his spit-slick thumb across its nipple. 

“Tell me,” he purrs. “Go on.” 

“I don’t—what?” Geralt manages. His hands dig into the nest. Jaskier kisses his collarbone. _“Jaskier.”_

“Mm?” Jaskier nuzzles his throat. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans again, and Jaskier _thrusts_. “Ah!” 

“Good start,” Jaskier says approvingly. “Don’t stop.” 

Geralt stares up at him blurrily, his hands coming up to catch on Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier kisses his throat again; rocks his hips just a bit too shallowly. Geralt hisses in frustration, clinging to him. 

“More,” he rasps roughly, and Jaskier thrusts. It’s not a word he says often in bed, but this is _rut_. Jaskier can give him more. Jaskier should already _be_ giving him more. 

“Louder,” Jaskier says. 

_“More,”_ Geralt says, and Jaskier thrusts again. Geralt’s breath hitches and he lets out a hoarse moan, and Jaskier goes back to those fucking _shallow_ thrusts and Geralt groans in frustration. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t?” Jaskier says lightly, and Geralt grits his teeth. 

“Don’t,” he manages again, mostly coherently. Jaskier nuzzles his throat and mouths down to his shoulder, his hands trailing warmly over Geralt’s sides. Geralt wants to moan. And Jaskier _wants_ him to moan. He just—he can’t quite—

He can’t. 

“Do you need help?” Jaskier asks, so much _kinder_ than makes sense, and Geralt just—nods, useless and helpless. It’s _Jaskier_ who’s on his cycle; Jaskier’s the one who should be overwhelmed and struggling with himself. Not that Geralt wants him to struggle, just . . . 

That’s how it should be, shouldn’t it? 

“Talk or give me your mouth back,” Jaskier says, and Geralt can’t talk or even moan, but he can open his mouth. That’s not hard. Jaskier strokes his tongue with his thumb, gripping his jaw again. It feels . . . Geralt’s not sure how to define how it feels. His breathing picks up, and his face fucking _burns_. Jaskier starts thrusting deeper again, and Geralt can’t grit his teeth this time. He struggles to hold back the noises, and can’t quite tell if they’re as loud in the air as they are in his ears. 

Jaskier strokes his tongue again as his cock drags inside him, watching his face with the most fucking _tender_ expression. Geralt almost chokes. 

“I can’t believe you wore the bracelet,” Jaskier says, his eyes flicking to his wrist. “I can’t believe you’re letting me _rut_ you. I thought about it . . . _so_ many times.” 

Geralt doesn’t know what to think about that. Jaskier thought about this? Repeatedly? He thought about _Jaskier_ , obviously, but . . . 

“I thought you’d never let me,” Jaskier says. Geralt wants to close his mouth, except that might make Jaskier let go. He wants to stop making these _noises_ , but that would _require_ Jaskier letting go. 

But . . . this is what Jaskier wants, right? What any alpha would want from a rut partner. Obedience, pliance, submission. If he gives Jaskier that . . . 

He can give Jaskier that. He can do that. He just needs to . . . to let go. Just enough. Let go, and let Jaskier do what he wants to do, and give him what he asks for. That’s not a show of weakness, that’s just giving Jaskier what he needs. Being . . . _good_ for him. 

“I’m going to knot you like this. So I can see the way you look when I come inside you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and can’t stifle the moan. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine. It’s what Jaskier wants, so it’s okay to give it to him. There’s nothing wrong with that. 

It’s not asking too much. It’s not _taking_ too much. 

Not if Jaskier wants it too. 

"Will you like that?" Jaskier says, petting his tongue again. Somehow it feels almost more intimate than his cock does inside him. Maybe because it's new; maybe because it's making it so hard to keep quiet. Geralt can't answer him, either way. "I'm going to make you come on my knot. I love the way you feel around me when you do." 

Geralt moans again, can't _not_ moan again, and Jaskier thrusts harder. He can feel the other's growing knot pressing in against him, feel it fucking _into_ him as his cock goes so deep, and it feels so, so good. Jaskier's going to come in him, going to fill him up again, and he can't stop shuddering at the thought, or maybe the way Jaskier's knot feels growing inside him, or . . . 

Jaskier wants to see how he looks when he comes inside him. 

Geralt _shudders_. 

"Geralt," Jaskier rasps, his hips grinding in roughly. Geralt digs his fingers in on his arms, because otherwise he'll be covering his face, and he can't do that because Jaskier wants to _see_. 

And he wants . . . 

_"Geralt,"_ Jaskier says again, and comes inside him, hips stuttering and knot fat and swollen. Geralt doesn't know what his expression does, but Jaskier watches raptly. Geralt feels full and wet and _aches_ to come, and can't think much past that. Jaskier wants him to come on his knot. 

It's not going to be hard to. 

"So good for me," Jaskier says, letting go of his jaw. Geralt can't quite make his mouth close; can't keep himself from panting. He wants to say something, but . . . "You're going to come for me, right? Can you be loud for me too?" 

Geralt doesn't know. Jaskier puts a hand on his cock and strokes, and his body tightens around the other's knot. He shudders again, harder, and Jaskier purrs at him. 

"So pretty," he says. Geralt makes—some kind of a noise. Something. Jaskier _purrs_. "So, so pretty. I love how you look right now. So well-fucked, so eager for more." 

"Jaskier," Geralt manages, and Jaskier's face softens. 

Geralt wants to ask if it's too much, but that'd be . . . stupid. Weak. Jaskier wants it, so it's not too much. It's fine, as long as Jaskier wants it. 

It's fine. 

"I've got you," Jaskier says, stroking his cock faster; rolling their hips together. Geralt tries to relax into it, to come like Jaskier wants, but it's harder than it should be because now he's fucking _thinking_ about it. He makes— _noises_. "Oh, Geralt. I love it. Don't stop, keep it up."

Jaskier kisses his chest. Strokes his cock. Geralt groans, and moans, and tries to relax into it. Jaskier makes so many things so easy, but . . . 

It's not easy. 

Jaskier growls, low and carrying, and Geralt jerks at the sound; at the way his pheromones spike with it. That—that sounds so—

So _alpha_. 

Jaskier kisses his chest again, rumbling in his own, and Geralt . . . relaxes. It's fine. It's fine. His alpha—Jaskier has him, and that's what Jaskier wants. He doesn't have to worry about needing too much or taking too long to come or any of that. Not right now. 

It's fine. 

"Jaskier," Geralt rasps, and Jaskier purrs into his chest. 

"Come for me," he says, and Geralt does, and it's easy. It's . . . 

Safe, Geralt thinks through the fuzziness of afterglow. It's safe. It's what Jaskier wants, so it doesn't matter if he wants too much, _feels_ too much. Jaskier won't mind. 

"So good," Jaskier rumbles, pulling his half-softened cock out of him; replacing it with his fingers and stroking inside him so it's too much and just right. "So _sweet_ , so wet and full of me. Do you like it? I want you to like it." 

"Yes," Geralt rasps, because if Jaskier wants it it's easy to say, admit, confess. Jaskier growls again, and a bolt of heat goes through him. 

Jaskier _wants_ it. 

"I'm going to put my teeth in you," Jaskier says. "I'm going to fuck you 'til we either pass out or you beg me to stop." 

Geralt can't imagine ever wanting him to stop. 

Jaskier takes his fingers out of him and tugs at his side and Geralt rolls over beneath him, easily, naturally, like they've done it a thousand times before and not just a bare handful, and Jaskier leans over him and presses his teeth against the back of his neck. 

"Oh, so sweet," he says. "Is it just for me, Geralt? Do I have you all to myself tonight?" 

_"Jaskier,"_ Geralt says. 

"Right here," Jaskier says. He strokes a hand down his spine, mouthing at the bond bite. Geralt feels a hot rush low in his gut and grips the sheets. "I have you. Is it good?" 

" _Fuck_ me," Geralt says, because it's rut so it's not too much to ask. Not too much to demand. Not _any_ kind of too much. 

"Of course I will," Jaskier says, nuzzling the back of his neck. "I'll fuck you any time you want it." 

Geralt huffs, because Jaskier has no idea how much that would take, and hisses as Jaskier rubs his cock against his ass and runs a hand down his side. 

"You don't think I could?" Jaskier says. "We've got options. I'll see you satisfied if it kills me." 

"It's fine," Geralt says stiffly. He doesn't want to talk about this. This is the kind of talk that upsets alphas, more often than not. 

"Your problem is you need a proper pack," Jaskier says musingly, nuzzling his neck again, and a sharp stab of pain goes through Geralt at the idea. Witchers don't have pack. Not even with other witchers. "Then there'd always be someone who could take care of you when you need it." 

"Don't," Geralt says tightly. He doesn't want to hear things like that. 

"You don't want it?" Jaskier says, still nuzzling. "We could do it. You'd never be left wanting again." 

"I said _don't_ ," Geralt hisses, spine tensing under the other's mouth. "You know I don't like being lied to." 

"You know I don't lie to you," Jaskier says. "Not about anything important." 

"Mm." Geralt buries his face in the bed. Jaskier presses a kiss to the bond-bite. 

"If you want a pack, I'll make you one. I'll give you anything I can," he says quietly. "Anything I'm capable of." 

"Then get _in_ me," Geralt says tightly, his shoulders hunching. He doesn't want to hear this. Not even from Jaskier. 

"Alright," Jaskier murmurs, and sinks his teeth into his neck. Geralt moans immediately, pressing his forehead into the bed and fisting his hands in the sheets, and Jaskier drags his tongue across the bite. It feels _good_. Feels true. 

Feels—easy. 

"More," he pants, pushing back into Jaskier's body greedily, except it's not greedy, not with the other rutting. It's just being a good rut partner. 

"Oh, gladly," Jaskier says, and pushes his cock into him on a long, slow slide. Geralt moans again, his breath stuttering. "Like that? Is that what you want?" 

"Mn!" Geralt chokes as the other thrusts, and Jaskier lets out a breathless laugh. 

"You _must_ like it, it's making you noisy," he says. "But you can be louder than that." 

Geralt really cannot, but he doesn't say that. If Jaskier wants it . . . 

He can try, at least. If Jaskier wants it. 

"Mm," is the best he manages for the moment, burying his face in the sheets. Jaskier kisses the bite again and snaps his hips in. Geralt groans, and Jaskier purrs. 

"I love it," he says. "You're so _good_. I want to make you wail for me." 

"I can't," Geralt mutters into the blankets, tensing at the thought. There's making noise and there's making too _much_ noise, and he's already too much in too many other ways. Jaskier kisses the bite; snaps his hips in. 

"It's alright," he says soothingly. "We'll work our way up to it." 

Geralt muffles a grunt in the blankets, not sure what to even say to that; not sure if there's even anything he _could_ say. Jaskier strokes his spine and bites his neck again, quick and sharp. Geralt's going to end up bleeding on the bed if he's not careful. 

He doesn't want him to be careful, though. He wants it to scar. 

He wants it to scar every time. 

"Open your mouth," Jaskier says. Geralt inhales shakily, pushing back into his thrusts much more urgently than he'd normally let himself. It's fine, he tells himself. It's what Jaskier needs. 

He opens his mouth. Jaskier puts his fingers in it again. He doesn't know why Jaskier keeps doing that, but his face burns just as hot as every time, for whatever reason. 

Maybe that's why Jaskier keeps doing it. 

Jaskier leans heavier over him and fucks him faster and deeper, his mouth against the bite, and Geralt can't even try to hold back the achingly desperate noises it knocks out of his throat. It's more than he should be doing, but Jaskier _wants_ it, and he can't pretend he doesn't want to give it to him. 

Can't even pretend he doesn't want it too, at least in his own head. 

He's doing Jaskier a favor. Paying him back. 

After a heat like that . . . 

He owes Jaskier a very good favor, after a heat like that. 

And he's allowed to enjoy returning a favor. It's no burden. No risk. Jaskier needs something, and Geralt has it, and that's all it has to be. 

The back of his neck twinges under Jaskier's lips, and he wants to bite his tongue but can't, so moans instead. 

"I missed you," Jaskier says tenderly, stroking his tongue one last time before taking his hand away. Geralt feels it like a loss, and can't quite reconcile the feeling. "I want to have you like this all the time. It drives me _mad_ that I can't. You're so beautiful in bed. So lovely all full of my come and only wearing my gift." 

Of course he'd rut like this, Geralt thinks. Just about any other alpha would be scratching and clawing at him and fucking him as brutally as possible, half-coherent at best, but not Jaskier. No, Jaskier wants to touch him gently and thoroughly, and Jaskier wants to _talk_. 

It fucking figures. 

"Harder," Geralt grunts, and Jaskier leans heavier into him. 

"I can do that," he says raspily, and does. "Anything you like. How many times can you come? You've never told me. I want to know what it takes to satisfy you." 

Too many, Geralt thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. He could go all night and still crave more and faster and harder, and that's the way it's always been. 

"It's fine," he says unevenly, digging his knees into the nest and pushing back into the other's thrusts. It's almost enough. Closer than anyone else has ever gotten. He's not going to be fucking ungrateful _now_. 

"So difficult," Jaskier says fondly, stroking his back again, snapping his hips in tighter so Geralt can feel his swelling knot against his body. "I'll figure it out. I can be patient, you know. Oh, I want to make you _ache_ for me. I want to make you feel better than anything when I touch you." 

He does. Geralt doesn't say that, though, and Jaskier keeps fucking him; keeps talking through it. 

"Better than _anything_ , I mean it," he rambles breathlessly, his hands tight on Geralt's hips and his breath heavy against the bond bite. "So good you won't even know what to do with yourself. Will you wail for me, if I do that? Will you let yourself be loud?" 

Not likely, since he hasn't so far. But Geralt doesn't say that, still, and Jaskier just keeps fucking him, his rhythm just barely erratic but so fucking _good_ inside him. His hands drag on Geralt's hips, grip tight, and Geralt can still feel him breathing against his neck. 

He moans, because Jaskier wants it and because it's _so_ hard not to, and Jaskier fucks him harder. He's so wet, already more than full of the other's come, and everything Jaskier does makes him want more of him. More, and more, and too much. 

"Jaskier," he gasps, and Jaskier _bites_ him. "Ah! _Jaskier_!" 

Jaskier growls deep in his chest, and Geralt feels . . . Geralt feels precious and protected, like something Jaskier wants to _keep_. Like something he'd never give up or let go of, not for anything. 

It's not true, he knows—not any of it—but oh, does he feel it. 

And he likes the way it feels. 

"Jaskier, _Jaskier_ ," he moans again, hands dragging at the blankets. Jaskier growls again, perfect and possessive, and Geralt arches beneath him, wanting—more, more, _too much_. 

Much too much. 

He comes. Jaskier fucks him through it, then starts to slow his thrusts. Geralt groans in protest. 

"Don't stop," he manages. "Harder." 

"Yes," Jaskier says, and doesn't stop, and does go harder. Geralt moans, moving back into the other as hard as he dares, tilting his hips to coax him in deeper. He doesn't want Jaskier to come. He wants to feel this and feel this and _feel_ this. As long as Jaskier can give it to him, he wants it. 

And maybe just that little bit longer. 

_"Oh,"_ Jaskier groans, his nails digging into Geralt's hips tightly but not tightly enough; clearly struggling to control himself. Geralt doesn't know how to tell him he doesn't have to hold back like that. 

The obvious way, he supposes. 

"More," he says. "Don't hold back." 

Jaskier makes a completely incomprehensible noise. Geralt reaches back to grip his hip and pull him in _tight_ , and he makes the noise again. 

"More," Geralt repeats roughly. "Fill me up." 

_"Geralt,"_ Jaskier chokes. He thrusts _hard_ , hard enough to actually startle Geralt, who gasps, eyes flaring wide. 

Yes. Like that. 

That's what he wants. 

"Sorry, sorry, _hell_ ," Jaskier stutters. Geralt digs his fingers into his hip. 

"Don't be sorry," he growls. "Don't _stop_." 

"Ngh," Jaskier says. "Oh. _Oh_." 

"Jaskier!" Geralt hisses threateningly, and Jaskier puts a hand on the back of his neck and braces himself against the bed and _fucks_ him. Geralt starts cursing. He thinks he rips one of the blankets. Jaskier's cock feels so good, is in him so deep, is moving so quick and merciless—

It won't last, obviously, even in rut, but Geralt _basks_ in it. 

"I'm going to take such good care of you," Jaskier swears, digging his nails in against the bond bite. "I'll give you everything I can. Everything in my power." 

Geralt buries his face in the blankets. Jaskier keeps fucking him; keeps his nails in his neck. 

"Let me mate you, Geralt," he croons. "You won't regret it. I'll make you _so_ happy. Whatever it takes." 

"Jaskier," Geralt groans in frustration, keeping his face hidden for his own good. 

"I will," Jaskier says. "Anything you like. And I'll make you come as many times as you can stand." 

"Hn," Geralt says, and Jaskier drags his nails down his neck. Geralt's body jerks without his permission. 

"I'll take such good care of you," Jaskier says, near-reverent. "Keep you in all the finest things. Food and wine and any pretty thing that suits you." 

"Pretty things don't suit me," Geralt grunts roughly. 

"Liar," Jaskier says, running a hand down to the bracelet on his wrist and tugging gently at it. "They suit you so well. I'd see you in nothing else, if it was up to me." 

Geralt growls, and Jaskier laughs breathlessly. 

"Oh, you'd look so lovely," he says. "Would you wear flowers for me, Geralt?" 

"Mm." Geralt presses his mouth into a thin line. He's not that kind of omega. Jaskier strokes his neck. 

"So lovely," he murmurs. "I'd weave them in your hair, if you'd let me. So everyone would know." 

Geralt growls again. Jaskier digs his nails in against his neck again. 

"Will you come for me again?" he says. "Or are you waiting for my knot?" 

Geralt _growls_. He fists his hands in the blankets. Jaskier fucks him, so hard and so fast and _almost enough_ —

"Mine," Jaskier croons, quiet and adoring, and Geralt _jerks_. Jaskier's knot pushes into him and a shudder goes up his spine and he comes, then, too easily and too much. He bites back a heated cry, half-choking on it, and Jaskier bites his neck in sharp reprimand. "Oh, Geralt. Didn't I say to be loud for me?" 

"I can't," Geralt croaks, his whole body shaking, and Jaskier just keeps _fucking_ him. 

"Try," he says. Geralt opens his mouth, dizzy and overwhelmed, and a hoarse little sound escapes. Jaskier _purrs_. "Like that. Louder." 

"Jaskier," Geralt gasps out, because he has to, and Jaskier bites him harder. _"Jaskier!"_

"I'm going to come," Jaskier says, burying his face in the back of his shoulder. "Oh, _oh_ —" 

"In me," Geralt groans, like he even needs to say it, and Jaskier purrs louder. 

"If you ask me," he says, his voice rough and tight with restraint. "Ask me." 

"Come in me," Geralt demands immediately, pushing back into him. "Rut me. I want _more_." 

Jaskier groans, and comes inside him. Geralt _keens_ , collapsing against the nest as a momentary weakness flashes through him. Jaskier's knot is thick and fat and _good_ inside him, filling him up tight and keeping Jaskier's come where it belongs, and Geralt feels utterly overcome. 

It's so good. 

It's so close to enough. 

"Jaskier," he moans desperately, and Jaskier kisses the bite shakily, running a trembling hand up his back. 

"Again?" he asks, half-laughing, and Geralt whines. It's a pathetic sound, but one he can't hold back. 

_"Still,"_ he says. 

"Still?" Jaskier says, worming a hand beneath him to stroke his cock and another to cup one of his pecs, the gesture so fucking _soft_. "Then let me take care of that for you. Let me make it good for you." 

"Jaskier," Geralt manages again, nodding near-frantically. It's so close to enough, so _close_ , and he just wants—

Enough. That's all he wants. 

Jaskier touches him until he comes, and he comes shaking and _shaken_ , burning and aching in all the right ways. He clenches around Jaskier's knot, tight and possessive, and Jaskier moans into his neck. 

It's so good. 

Geralt's been rutted by so few alphas, but it's _so_ good, and with Jaskier . . . 

Somehow it's even better, with Jaskier. 

"How's that?" Jaskier says, stroking Geralt's stomach soothingly as he struggles to breathe. He ignores the tingling under his skin. 

"Fine," he says, though that really doesn't cover it. "Your rut?"

"I'm on _fire_ ," Jaskier laughs, burying his face in the back of his shoulder. "Is it too soon?" 

"No," Geralt says, warmth spreading through his gut. "It's not too soon." 

"Too good to me," Jaskier says, and pulls out of him just enough to give himself room to thrust. His knot's softened, but he's still hard, and Geralt _shudders_ at the slow drag of him inside him. 

So much better than good. 

"Mine," Jaskier murmurs into his shoulder, and Geralt shudders harder. 

"Get off," he says roughly. Jaskier makes a near-mournful noise, but pulls back. 

"Too much?" he asks. Geralt snorts, and twists to grab the other and drag him down against the mattress. 

"Not enough," he corrects, and slings a leg across Jaskier's hips.

_"Oh,"_ Jaskier says, lighting up. Geralt guides his cock into himself, and Jaskier moans beautifully for it. 

"Tell me if it's too much," Geralt says, short and raw, because _he's_ the one who actually has to worry about that, and Jaskier puts his hands on him. 

"How could you ever be?" he says in that same tender tone. 

Geralt shifts his weight and the angle of his hips, letting Jaskier in _deep_ , and fucks himself on his cock. Jaskier curses adoringly, gripping him tight, and Geralt keeps moving, raises and drops his hips, listens to the creaking of the bed and the obscene sounds of their bodies moving together. Jaskier croons up at him, utterly incoherent, and Geralt—he moves faster. He's wet and well-fucked and the slide of Jaskier inside him is easy, effortless, _exquisite_. 

It's so good. 

"Jaskier," he says, because that's all he can bring himself to say, and Jaskier puts his hands all over him: his hips, his ribs, his pecs, his back, his cock. Never anywhere long enough, but so many places all the same. 

"Don't stop," Jaskier rasps, staring up at him with wide, adoring eyes, and Geralt _burns_. 

He doesn't. He rides Jaskier to another orgasm, 'til the other's knotting him tight again and he has him locked, and then he takes the moment to touch his cock and come himself. It's easy, with Jaskier inside and underneath him. Not hard at all. 

He doesn't know how to explain how that feels. Doesn't know if he even could. 

But he feels it, all the same. 

"Jaskier," he says again, and grinds their hips together so the other moans and groans and fucking _yelps_. "Jaskier."

It's all he can say, it feels like. 

It's not too much. Jaskier's rutting. He _needs_ too much. 

So it's fine. 

"Harder," Jaskier gasps out, voice cracking, and Geralt grinds down around his knot again. 

Only _Jaskier_ would say something like that in rut, he thinks. Any other alpha would just take it. 

He's so full. 

Maybe Jaskier can give him just a little bit more, though. 

It's fine, if he wants more. He owes Jaskier. He owes him, and he can like returning the favor. Jaskier liked heat partnering him; it's no different. 

And he owes giving Jaskier a good rut. 

_Wants_ to give Jaskier a good rut. 

Wants it very, very badly. Wants Jaskier loving it, and reveling in it, and coming back for more. 

Yes. That's what he wants. 

"Alpha," Geralt says, like a good omega would, and Jaskier chokes. Geralt rolls his hips. Jaskier drops his head back against the nest with a long, low moan. Geralt tries to make himself . . . tries to sound _tender_ , like Jaskier can so easily. "Come in me, alpha. Mark me." 

Jaskier catches his wrist and drags it to his mouth; bites the scent glands in it around the bracelet. 

"Mine," he rasps with alpha in his voice. 

"Yes," Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier _trembles_ underneath him. 

He comes again. Geralt feels achingly full. He might come himself, but he barely notices—it's just a little thing, compared to everything else he's feeling. One firework out of many. 

Oh, how he _aches_. 

Jaskier makes some noises. They aren't really words, so Geralt doesn't worry about it. 

He wants more. He wants harder, and faster, and more intense, and . . . and he wants. 

He wants. 

Jaskier's cock goes soft inside him, and Geralt holds back the disappointed sound and lifts off him, come and slick leaking out of him and down his thighs. Jaskier makes some more noises, sliding a hand up through the mess. 

"Oh, aren't you a sight, omega," he rasps. "You smell so good right now. Better than ever." 

“It’s just you,” Geralt says, like it’s that simple. He lays down next to the other. Jaskier groans and turns into him, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his chest with a rumbling purr. 

"I know," he says feelingly. “I love it.” 

“Hn.” Geralt puts a hand on the back of his head. Jaskier kisses his chest, pressing in close, and takes his braceleted hand in his own to kiss too. 

“I’m so glad you stayed,” he says. “I mean, I wouldn’t have been mad if you didn’t, just . . . I’m _very_ glad you did. Obviously. You’re wonderful.” 

“You’re talking like you’re already done,” Geralt says, and Jaskier laughs wryly. 

“Definitely not,” he says, and Geralt feels a brief flicker of pleasure at the promise of more. “Give me five minutes. Even if I _was_ done I think I’d still want to go again, honestly, you’re so _good_.” 

“Mm,” Geralt says. Jaskier squeezes his hand, looking at the bracelet. 

“It’s not much of an engagement gift,” he says. “I’ll have to find you something better.” 

“You don’t,” Geralt says. He doesn’t know what would be better, anyway. 

“No, I do,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “I didn’t pick it out thinking of that.” 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says. Jaskier peers up at him, his expression soft. 

“You’re so sweet,” he says. “But that just makes me want to do it more.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier laughs, squeezing his hand again. Geralt lets him, and then, just for a moment, squeezes back. Jaskier looks delighted. Geralt just . . . doesn’t acknowledge it. 

Can’t, quite. 

“Mine,” Jaskier says, a low, alpha-voiced hum of a word. Geralt should tense at that, but instead something in him unwinds. Jaskier purrs against his chest, and he . . . listens, mostly. Just listens. 

Jaskier kisses his hand again, still reeking of unsatisfied rut and eager lust, of Geralt’s own too-greedy pheromones, and Geralt relaxes into it. He’s not too much; at least not yet. Jaskier wants more. 

He’ll give him everything he can. 

“Where are you going after this?” Jaskier asks in a murmur. Geralt doesn’t have an answer for him, so just . . . shrugs. “Mm? In that case, well—may I come, omega?” 

The idea of Jaskier ever _asking_ to come with him is . . . funny, almost. But this time . . . 

This won’t be like the other times, if Geralt says yes. This’ll be the beginning of waiting for their cycles to synch. For them to have a cycle _together_. For . . . 

“Not yet,” he says, a little too stiff, and Jaskier hums. There’s no disappointment in the sound. 

“Alright,” he says simply, rubbing his thumb over the links of the bracelet; pressing the charm softly into his skin. Geralt . . . exhales. 

“Alright,” he repeats for no good reason, and then, like always, they make their plans for where they’re going to meet up next, and then _not_ like always Jaskier’s rut spikes again, and Geralt almost, _almost_ gets enough of him. 

In the morning, he does what he always does, and leaves before Jaskier wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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